


Short Meetings (There'll be peace when you are done)

by mercuriallyCooperative



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon-typical swearing, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:24:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6789979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuriallyCooperative/pseuds/mercuriallyCooperative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two different takes on how a meeting might have gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Man and a Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this nearly a year an a half ago, just after I first got into Homestuck. So, my grasp of characterization is probably a little off, not fully developed.
> 
> These two chapters were very much meant to be paired; there are sections that are nearly identical, with somewhat subtle changes. Tell me how well it works! Constructive criticism in general is very much appreciated.
> 
> Here you go.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Wherein the Signless was an adult when he was finally caught and killed.)

“Hey!” a voice barked.

He turned, faded cloak rustling, dragging on the desert sand. The Signless frowned lightly- that voice sounded almost familiar, but it was not one of his friends. Not one of his enemies, either.

He’d met plenty of both in these strange dream-memories as he’d wandered over the sweeps.

He looked down at whoever had called him.

It took him a second to realize what he was looking at. Or rather, who.

Karkat Vantas glared up at the troll who was, apparently, his ancestor.

So Vriska and Eridan and Terezi were right. Who even cared. He certainly didn’t bother listening when Aranea started talking about them a few dream bubbles ago.

The… Sufferer, Signless, what kind of name was that anyway, was looking back at him, amused. Karkat fidgeted. So his ancestor was an adult. Big fucking deal, he should have expected that. And he was kind of tall. At least Karkat had something to look forward to when he grew- if this stupid game didn’t get them all killed permanently. One thing, though, he would admit to being surprised at; the Sufferer didn’t look very much like an adult Kankri at all. Not the way he’d have expected of two people who were exactly the same, genetically. If Karkat looked hard, he could see it, but… His ancestor looked more like Karkat. Someone Karkat could grow up to be.

“Well,” the Signless began slowly, “You must be my descendant.” His eyes fixed, for a moment, on the sign decorating the younger troll’s shirt. It was the grey of hemoanonymity, not the bright red of their blood, he noted. Possibly a bad indicator, but… The shape of it, at least, was awkwardly familiar to him, even after what must have been hundreds of sweeps dead and wandering, burned into his memory and his skin; the shackles he’d died in.

That was one way to leave a mark on Alternia, he supposed, bringing his eyes to examine the familiar features of the younger troll. Hair, horns, all the same, face, nearly so. Eyes, not the bright white of the dead, not yet filled in red. The Signless wondered if his descendant knew the meaning of the grey symbol he wore. Whether anyone did, or if it had been consigned (hah) quietly to one of the many books of signs, tucked out of the way, either in loss or triumph, story forgotten. Maybe a last little joke from the Empress, or the Grand Highblood. Or a last little rebellion from one of his own followers.

He was also curious how he even _had_  a descendant. He was fairly sure he would remember if he or his Disciple had ever given a bucket to an Imperial Drone; the experience would probably have been… an adventure.

Karkat scowled. “Yeah, well, no shit. What gave it away- our perfectly matching little fucking horn nubs?” He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to look bigger. No, that was stupid, an adult not-quite-clone would obviously know exactly how intimidating he… could admit that he sort of wasn’t. His ancestor’s assessing look had been fucking weird though. The Sufferer took the movement as a sort of cue, it seemed, to give Karkat a half-friendly half-amused expression. Karkat did not like seeing that expression on his own face, it was fucking stupid.

“I’m the Signless, lately the Sufferer I suppose,” his ancestor began, then paused. Continued, carefully. “I was Kankri Vantas, before that. What’s your name?”

“Karkat. Karkat Vantas,” the troll in question muttered.

The Signless looked at him. “Well then. Karkat. I’ve been here for many sweeps, and I take it you’re from Alternia long after I lived. Tell me. Have you heard of me?”

Karkat considered the question as he watched his ancestor warily. He’d read the ass-long memo Aranea had (somehow) managed to leave on Trollian from within the dream bubbles. Mostly as a pointed example of how certain trolls should read _his_  memos, but he’d read it. “… no. Not on Alternia,” he finally grumbled. “Only after we got here. A friend of mine wouldn’t shut up about it- candy-red mutant blood, raised in the middle of fucking nowhere by another troll, led a big fucking rebellion, got yourself culled by the Empress, opened that can of dumbass ancestor-related dirt noodles and inspired them to follow in your dead footsteps.”

Almost, Karkat thought to himself, scowling again, as impressive as some of his pan-damaged friends thought their own ancestors were. And… Karkat wondered if the Signless ever thought about what he could have done differently, leading his followers on their crusade. Wondered how he could have done better. He scowled harder. Also, fuck this memory, the sand was pissing him off.

“Alright then.” The Signless thought about that. He hadn’t succeeded, then, in abolishing hemospectrum. Or, it seems, even making a tangible difference on Alternia at all. Which wasn’t quite the same thing as failing, since someone, at least, remembered what he’d tried to do, and his descendant had a sign and was still alive, despite his bright red blood. He wondered what other small changes his faint legacy had wrought.

The Signless, the Sufferer, Kankri Vantas, remembered dreaming of a world without the oppression of the hemospectrum. He remembered _remembering_ , a world where fuchsia or jade or mutant red didn’t matter, remembered speaking into the sponge clots of anyone who would listen about how they could make that world a reality. And now here was his descendant, from sweeps and sweeps in the future who seemed to be from an Alternia little different from the one the Signless had died in. He wondered if there _was_  anything he could have done better, could have done to change Alternia any more.

“Karkat!”

Karkat turned from his thoughtful companion, not quite relieved, to find Feferi and Kanaya waving him over from just over the next remembered-sand dune. Far enough away, he thought, to see his ancestor, but not to recognize him, cloaked from horns to feet as he was. “Karkat!” Feferi called again enthusiastically, “We codn’t fin you anywhere! We’re going to miss everyone!” They stopped at the top of the dune, and Karkat shouted back, “Give me a fucking minute! You two can go ahead and tell the other assholes to start their fruity rumpus asshole party already!”

Of course it was Kanaya who called over, “Karkat, Feferi is the only one who is aware of the path to the dream bubble in which everyone is gathered. You wouldn’t be able to find your way there without considerable difficulty, certainly not before the bubbles drift back apart. We’ll wait for you.”

And there they stood in the moonlit desert, and fuck it, Karkat thought, this was probably Kanaya’s memory, her hive was in the desert, wasn’t it?

He turned back to his ancestor, whose eyes were now locked on the two brightly illuminated figures above them. The Signless turned and looked back down at him, a touch of that stupid smile on his face.

“It’s been interesting to meet you. Go on, you don’t want to keep your friends waiting.”

Karkat hesitated, glancing for a moment between them and his ancestor. “Yeah.” He shifted his weight slightly, and took a few steps toward Kanaya and Feferi. Then he stopped. Turned back to his ancestor.

“Was it worth it?” Karkat asked the Sufferer. “You dying. Them dying. Everything.”

His ancestor gave him that infuriating, gentle expression again. “I don’t know. From what I’ve heard, Alternia is gone. What I did, what my friends did, what my followers did, is over now. What’s left is what you are heir to. Was it worth it?” He nodded up toward the other children. “Go and find out.”

The Signless watched as his descendant considered that answer for a moment, nodded, scowl slightly lessened, then scrambled up the sand, already alternating between cursing to himself and shouting up at his friends about how he was their leader damnit and they should listen when he tells them to go on ahead.

The Sufferer watched his descendant, and his mother’s, and Her Imperial Condescension’s.

Whatever his rebellion had done, or not, to Alternia, it had produced these three children. Three children, scattered across the hemospectrum and off of it, as well as whatever friends they were heading to meet, working together in the land of the dead, through a world-shattering cataclysm, but together.

Was it worth it?

… yes. Yes it was.


	2. Two Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Wherein the Signless was just a boy.)

“Hey!” a voice barked.

He turned, faded cloak rustling, dragging on the desert sand. The Signless frowned lightly- that voice sounded almost familiar, but it was not one of his friends. Not one of his enemies, either.

He’d seen plenty of both in these strange dream-memories as he’d wandered over the sweeps.

He looked at whoever had called to him.

It took him a second to realize what he was looking at. Or rather, who.

Karkat Vantas glared up at the troll who was, apparently, his ancestor.

So Vriska and Eridan and Terezi were right. Who even cared. He certainly didn’t bother listening when Aranea started talking about them a few dream bubbles ago.

The… Sufferer, Signless, what kind of name was that anyway, was looking back at him, nonplussed. Karkat scowled. He wasn’t even that many sweeps older, maybe four or five, and only a little taller. Karkat was, however, a little surprised; the Sufferer didn’t look very much like an adult Kankri at all. Not the way he’d have expected of two people who were exactly the same, genetically. If Karkat looked hard, he could see it, but… His ancestor looked more like Karkat. Someone Karkat could grow up to be.

“I guess you’re my descendent,” the Signless said, slowly. His eyes were caught on the sign decorating the younger troll’s shirt. It was the grey of hemoanonymity, which didn’t necessarily mean anything, except didn’t it? because of course his descendent had to be a mutant too, and if he was hiding his blood color… But. It was the shape that surprised him most. A shape that was, even after what must have been hundreds of sweeps dead and wandering, still burned into his memories (and his wrists too, unfortunately); the shackles that had carried him to his death.

Well. That was one way to leave a mark on Alternia, he supposed. The Signless wondered if his descendent knew what it meant (the sign of the Signless, hah), whether anyone did. Or if the shape, apparently added quietly to the many books of signs somewhere out of the way, had been a throw-away joke by the Empress, or maybe the Grand Highblood, a last mockery of his efforts.

He also wondered how he even _had_  a descendant, because he definitely didn’t remember he or the Disciple giving any buckets to an Imperial Drone. He probably wouldn’t have survived the experience.

Karkat snorted. “No shit. What gave it away- the fact we look almost fucking identical?” He moved to cross his arms over his chest. His ancestor was eyeing his sign like it had personally offended him- it was honestly getting a little creepy. This seemed to snap the older troll out of it. The Sufferer shook himself slightly, and gave Karkat a hesitantly friendly smile. It was really fucking weird to see that expression on a face that looked so much like his own.

“I’m the Signless,” his ancestor began, then paused. Continued, carefully. “I don’t suppose you ever heard about what I-“

“Yeah, I know,” Karkat interrupted hurriedly, because for all he knew this Alternian Kankri could blabber on just as much as his Beforan counterpart, “candy-red mutant blood, raised in the middle of fucking nowhere by an adult troll, played meowbeast and squeekbeast with the empire for sweeps, raised a rebellion about how the hemospectrum is hoofbeastshit, got yourself culled by the Empress, inspired legions of followers and opened that can of ancestor-related dirt noodles, I read the memo.” Mostly as a pointed example of how certain trolls should read _his_  memos, but still.

He might have, Karkat thought to himself, been a little more polite to his ancestor, because honestly some of the things he did sounded kind of cool. But standing in front of him, it was hard to take a troll barely sweeps older than himself as seriously as the sort of legend some of his friends saw their own ancestors as. Also, whose memory was this, anyway, the fucking sand was pissing him off.

“Oh. Alright then.” The Signless wasn’t entirely sure what to think of the irritably dismissive way his descendent spoke about his life and death. And- this wasn’t one of his sermons. Or one of his friends, or his mother, and he hadn’t had a chance to speak to many people outside of that in sweeps and- well. Hundreds of sweeps, now. Speaking of which. “What’s your name? I can’t just keep thinking of you as ‘Descendant’.”

He wanted to ask, too: Was it worth it? The Signless- Kankri Vantas, the name the Dolorosa, his mother, had given him- remembered dreaming of a world without the oppression of the hemospectrum. He remembered _remembering_ , a world where fuchsia or jade or mutant red didn’t matter, remembered speaking into the sponge clots of anyone who would listen about how they could help make that world a reality. But here was his descendent-

“Oh fuck that, I’m Karkat. Karkat Vantas, hmph, ’descendant’ my bone bulge you-“

\- from sweeps and sweeps in the future who seemed to be from an Alternia no different than the one the Signless had died in. He opened his mouth to ask, “… was it-“

“Karkat!”

Only to be interrupted.

Karkat turned, not quite relieved, to find Feferi and Kanaya waving him over from just over the next remembered-sand dune. Far enough away, he thought, to see his ancestor, but not to recognize him, cloaked from horns to feet as he was. “Karkat!” Feferi called again enthusiastically, “We codn’t fin you anywhere! We’re going to miss everyone!” They stopped at the top of the dune, and Karkat shouted back, “Give me a fucking minute! You two can go ahead and tell the other assholes to start their fruity rumpus asshole party already!”

Of course it was Kanaya who called over, “Karkat, Feferi is the only one who is aware of the path to the dream bubble in which everyone is gathered. You wouldn’t be able to find your way there without considerable difficulty, certainly not before the bubbles drift back apart. We’ll wait for you.”

And there they stood in the moonlit desert, and fuck it, Karkat thought, this was probably Kanaya’s memory, her hive was in the desert, wasn’t it?

He turned back to his ancestor, whose eyes were now locked on the two brightly illuminated figures above them. “Was what?” Karkat grumbled. The Signless blinked and looked back down at him. “What?” he replied.

“You asked ‘was it-‘,” Karkat repeated. “Was what?” His ancestor glanced back up at his friends, then the older troll shook his head, part of that stupid smile on his face.

“Nothing. Your friends are waiting for you, right? You don’t want to keep them.”

Karkat looked between them and his ancestor for a moment. “Yeah.” He took a few steps toward Kanaya and Feferi, then turned back. “It was nice meeting you. Or whatever.”

The Signless watched as his descendant scrambled up the sand, cursing to himself and already in the middle of a heated discussion with- monologue at- his friends about how he was the leader damnit and they should listen when he tells them to go on ahead.

The Sufferer watched his descendant, and his mother’s, and the Her Imperial Condescension’s.

Whatever his rebellion had done, or not, to Alternia, it had produced a world where those three could be friends. Could be working together, alive in a land of the dead. Through, as he’d heard over the sweeps here, some great cataclysm, but together.

Was it worth it?

… yes.

 


End file.
